


Not That Kind of Publication

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual John, Bottom Sherlock, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Unlikely cover model, spank bank material
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 05:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11707443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: John finds a riveting magazine in the flat. He starts abusing it's porn potential. Sherlock finds out of course. There is porny sex, and angst, and feels, cuz it's me.





	Not That Kind of Publication

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kabes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kabes/gifts).



> Kabes sent me a picture of Benedict sexing it up on the cover of Vanity Fair and suggested the wanking potential if John found it. Blame her for the porn. The angst is all me, I just can't help myself.

          “…pig sty…bloody genius can’t wash out a tea cup…” John muttered as he tidied the flat. He couldn’t say why, but it was immensely fulfilling to bitch under his breath as he mucked out the flat. Living with Sherlock was rarely boring, but it was often frustrating. “…piles of shite everywhere…God, how can he read these rags?”

          Attempting to straighten the teetering pile of glossy gossip mags and trashy scandal rags, John only succeeded in knocking them all across the side table. They slid onto the floor and he growled in annoyance, dropping to his knees to gather the scattered publications. It was frankly mystifying how Sherlock found anything of interest in these bits of trash, a man that intelligent, that blindingly brilliant, and he read salacious—

          Oh. Dear. _Lord_.

          John sat frozen, eyes wide as saucers as he stared at the cover of the magazine he’d just unearthed. It was…it was…it was _just not possible_! That was _not_ Sherlock Holmes oozing sex on the cover of a magazine! Hand suddenly a bit unsteady, John pulled it free of the others and studied it with hungry eyes. The man on the cover was definitely, undeniably his flatmate. But he was so very, very different from how John had ever seen him—or imagined seeing him!

          One arm was up, hand behind his head, the other low on his belly, thumb hooked tantalizingly in the waistband of a pair of denims. His pale blue shirt had ridden up just a bit and there was the tiniest hint of flat belly, lean hip, and, oh Lord, oh Heavenly Lord, oh merciful Lord, a suggestion of an inguinal crease. John dropped the magazine and covered his hot face with his shaking hands, banging the heel of his hands on his forehead as if it would jar the image loose. This was really too much to ask of him.

          He lowered his hands, checked. Yes, it was still there. Still a real, physical object occupying space in their flat. John had no idea why on earth Sherlock was on the cover of a magazine named—John snorted— _Organic Chemistry Enthusiast Yearly_. No idea why he was dressed so casually and posed so seductively. Studying Sherlock’s face he decided he had been younger—a check of the publication date confirmed it had come out several years before they met. Still all taut cheekbones, cool eyes, and perfect lips. Sherlock’s dark hair was brushed loosely back, as if he had just run a casual hand through his curls.

          John couldn’t have said how long he had been staring at the cover when he heard the sound of the front door slam closed. The magazine leapt out of his hands as he scrambled to cover up his crime. Hearing footsteps mount the stairs rapidly—damn those long legs…those long, long, long, long legs….no! attention must be paid, this was not the time—John panicked. The magazine was unceremoniously stuffed down the neck of his jumper and he darted across the room and jerked open the door.

          “This flat is a pig sty, Sherlock Holmes!” He yelled into the face of his blankly astonished friend, “I’m done picking up your shit…I tried to tidy the mess you left and its worse now. Do it yourself!” Leaving the door open John turned and stomped upstairs to his room. Once in his room he sagged against the door and wondered how in the hell he was going to get the magazine back without Sherlock noticing. He should have shoved it under the sofa. Carefully he pulled the magazine out of his jumper and smoothed it. After looking about a bit he decided that anywhere he might think to hide it Sherlock would deduce, John shrugged and slipped it in his bedside table. Later, he could sneak it downstairs later and put it under the sofa.

          Then if Sherlock ever discovered it, he would think it had slid under and been overlooked.

 

******

 

          It didn’t occur to John until the next day, while he was up to his elbows in lancing boils at the clinic, that if Sherlock was on the cover, then there was a fairly sizable story inside about him. Maybe with more pictures. With difficulty he focused on his work, eager to get home.

          The Bad Boy of Modern Chemistry, they called him. There was a fairly lengthy article—lots of gush and very little substance—and, for his sins, a two page spread. Full color. Devastatingly sexy. Sherlock in a pale green button down that turned his eyes to glowing jade, slightly turned away from the camera; the top two buttons were undone, his long fingers toying with the next button. As if he were about to undress, holding his lover’s eyes all the while. Gorgeous, sexy, tormenting devil.

          John’s breath was a bit heavy as he studied the picture, as if, were he to stare hard enough, he could will Sherlock’s fingers to continue loosening his shirt. His fingers cramped on the pages as he thought about sliding his hands in the open placket, pushing it aside, revealing every inch of that perfect, masculine, heavenly—

          No. No, he couldn’t. He mustn’t. It was wrong. So very, very wrong…

          For some reason he couldn’t quite pinpoint at this exact moment in time, it was scandalously, scandalously wrong of him to even consider giving his extremely eager erection a soothing stroke whilst staring at that delicious man presented before him. It was not the act of a friend, certainly not an honourable man, to use his friend’s body to satiate his own supremely insistent libido.

          Wrong…so, so…wrong. Ah God. _Yeah, Sherlock, just like that_ …fuck, he was even more gorgeous under that shirt than John had suspected. Oh, how obliging, he was going to take off his trousers too. _For me? You mustn’t…well, if you insist. Here, it would be churlish of me to leave you there in nothing at all_. There, nothing between them. Finally. _Why thank you, yours is pretty stunning as well. I always knew you’d be long_.

          Well, since he’d gone this far…John kept his eyes on Sherlock’s glossy face and tried not to breathe too loudly, lest the flesh and blood Sherlock downstairs somehow divine what he was doing up in his room.

 

******

 

          “You’ve been going to bed quite early,” Sherlock observed, absently rosining his bow; he arched a brow at John, “Are you quite well, John? I’ve noticed you seem restless lately…lots of squeaking and creaking of that old bed frame.”

          John froze, glad his back was to Sherlock; surely he couldn’t read anything from his back? “Yeah, um…been a bit tired lately. Not sleeping well because of—nightmares.” Nightmares, wet dreams. It was all semantics.

          “Perhaps you should try a nice hot shower,” Sherlock sounded bored, already turning to his violin, his hair damp from his own shower as he bent over his instrument. “Relax you.”

          “Yes,” John said, nodding too emphatically, “a shower, yes, great…I’ll…just…do that…yeah.” Well now he had to delay his new nightly ritual and take a shower.

          Following the world’s fastest shower, John mumbled goodnight and walked up the stairs to his bedroom with graceful restraint. Once in the door he fumbled at the lock and stripped off his dressing gown, dropping it on the floor as he dove for the bed. Back up against the headboard, legs spread, one hand reaching for the increasingly creased and tatty magazine and the other for his—

          “It’s not that kind of publication, John,” Sherlock said from the open doorway.

          John screeched and tried to fling the magazine away from him but a tacky bit of, ahem, something, glued it to his thumb and it flapped wildly as he shook his hand. Realizing he had bigger problems, John pulled that hand over his crotch.

          “You could at least ask before you shove your penis in my face, John,” Sherlock remarked calmly before stepping into the room and closing the door. He began unbuttoning his obscenely tight purple shirt.

          “You’re—what are you doing?” John wished he weren’t feeling quite so thick right now, but it was hard to think with all the blood in his groin and Sherlock wearing _that_ shirt.

          “Focus, John. I’m undressing. While some people prefer to remain partially clothed during sex, I myself enjoy total nudity.” Sherlock shrugged off his shirt and put his long fingers to the buckle of his belt, then, “Oh, before I forget—” He removed from his pocket a bottle which he tossed at John, who let go of himself to catch it in a one-handed fumble. “I checked your supplies and there are plenty of condoms—I was pleased to see they were magnums, though I suspected as much—but you didn’t have the type of lube I prefer.”

          “You…have a type of lube you prefer?” John parroted blankly, trying to peel the magazine off his hand. Sherlock whisked his trousers away and stood in a pair of tiny black briefs. John tried not to stare at his bulge, really he did. But there was only so much that could be asked of a man.

          “Yes. This is excellent quality, I assure you…and so am I.” Sherlock peeled off his briefs and dropped them on the floor. Strutting across the room naked he crawled up the bed on his hands and knees. John’s cock throbbed with a fresh influx of blood and he felt lightheaded. “Still with me?” Sherlock asked in amusement.

          John was annoyed. His fantasy Sherlock didn’t make fun of him. Ripping the magazine off recklessly, John dropped it on the floor and leaned forward to capture Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss that had the younger man whimpering. Reaching between them he took that long, gorgeous cock in hand, “My room, my rules.”

          “John,” Sherlock sighed, thrusting into his hand. He tried to kiss John again.

          “Ah ah ah…I said I have rules.”

          Sherlock sighed and sat back on his heels, cock bobbing, “And they are?”

          “Only what feels good, only with consent, and—and Sherlock, this is the most important one—I’m not a bloody experiment.”

          “Agreed,” Sherlock said impatiently, straddling his lap, “Now, fuck me, John.”

          “Gladly,” John breathed, pulling him tightly to him so he could kiss that cocky mouth and touch his tempting arse. That it brought their dicks together was entirely an accident of the most delicious sort. He was quite happy to knead that plush bottom and nibble on those plump lips for some time…although more was good too.

          “Done this before, have you?” Sherlock queried, when John snappily popped open the lid of the lube and reached around Sherlock’s lean form to squeeze some on his other hand. He rocked back into the glide of John’s fingers circling his hole.

          “I could ask you the same,” John breathed, licking Sherlock’s long neck and nibbling on his ear, “Thought relationships weren’t really your area.”

          “Do keep up, John,” Sherlock sneered a bit, inhaling mid-sentence as John slipped a finger in him and waggled warningly against his snippy tone; he spoke a little more nicely, “This is just sex.”

          “Oh. Right.” John took himself to task for feeling at all disappointed. As if he wanted more. Sometimes he didn’t even like the man. He definitely didn’t want a relationship. Definitely, definitely not.

          “That’s enough,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Let’s get on with it.”

          “You’re remarkably bossy for a man with my hand up his bum,” John said mildly. “Got somewhere to be?”

          “I’m sexually aroused and I wish you to fuck me,” Sherlock stated, starting to rise as if he would leave, and then pausing as John gently pumped his hand. His eyelids fluttered, “Oh…”

          “No need to rush. I’ve got all night.” John kissed the hollow of the other man’s throat, “Getting off is great but getting there can be just as much fun.”

          “I like to be efficient,” Sherlock snipped.

          “Well then,” John said calmly, ruthlessly pulling his hand out, “I guess you can go and efficiently take care of yourself. I’m not here to act as a big, agreeable dildo.”

          Sherlock pouted, then arched his back and rubbed his bum on John’s hand, “I guess you can keep on doing that thing. It was rather nice.”

          “Aren’t you sweet,” John laughed, lubing both hands. Sherlock watched him with interest. John winked and Sherlock went pink. “Come here then, let me give you a ride.”

          Sherlock purred in satisfaction when John slipped his fingers back inside him; he practically levitated when John’s other hand circled his stiff cock and began teasing; he choked out a strangled, needy cry when John massaged his prostate. “Uhn….”

          “Like that?” John asked roughly, watching the thrown back head, the look of ecstasy as Sherlock rocked and circled against John’s hands, his own large hands gripping John’s shoulders too tightly. “Want to come for me?” Sherlock shook his head frantically. “No? Why not?”

          “I’m not…ready….uhn…. _John_ …not ready for it…” Sherlock gasped, eyes flying open when John began sucking on his nipple, “…to be over!”

          “Aw now, it doesn’t have to end with you getting off,” John assured him, smiling, “I’ve got lots more I’d like to do to you. Let me make you come and then we can rest and I can show you what else I’ve got in mind. Hmm?” Without waiting for an answer, taking his cue from the flare of desire in the other man’s eyes, John twisted his wrist as he pumped his fist up and down Sherlock’s shaft. Sherlock nodded frantically, crashing his mouth onto John’s desperately, and then crying out as he came. John kissed him through the shaking aftermath of his orgasm, ignoring his own iron-hard dick. Time enough for that soon.

          When it became clear Sherlock was perfectly willing to use John as a bed—he never had been concerned with other people’s comfort—John tipped him gently onto his side and then rolled him onto his back, lying on his side next to him. Lazily trailing his fingers over Sherlock’s messy belly, John pressed open-mouthed kisses to his chest, moving leisurely, not in any hurry to rush. If he had one night he was going to savor every minute. Sooner than he expected, Sherlock roused, moving to reach for John’s dick, hands skilled but hasty.

          “Easy,” John breathed a laugh, slowing Sherlock’s hand, “I’m eager too, but you don’t have to go straight for the goodies.” Raising the large hand to his mouth he dared to kiss the back of Sherlock’s knuckles, holding his eyes, promising untold delights. Taking the hand he put it on his chest, “My nipples are really sensitive and I’m _very_ appreciative when someone plays with them…” No sooner said than done, apparently; Sherlock slid down a bit in the bed and leaned in to flick his tongue over the left one whilst his hand brushed teasingly over the right.

          John sighed and splayed his fingers on the back of Sherlock’s head, sinking his hand into those heavy, silky curls. “Yes, lo—like that…” He closed his eyes as he felt Sherlock’s gaze upon him, unwilling to give anything away. He moaned and let his hand tip back Sherlock’s head, lowering his mouth and being met in an eager, lusty kiss. “I’m already ready to go off like a bottle rocket,” John groaned when Sherlock caressed his belly and trailed his fingers down John’s treasure trail.

          “Do you get off faster with a mouth or hand?” Sherlock asked, his dark, rumbly purr almost too sexy to bear.

          “Never compared it,” John laughed, grinning at him. “Care to test me and see?”  
          “I thought I wasn’t allowed to experiment?”

          “Are you really going to pout that I changed my mind?” John asked mildly, “You’re not the only one allowed to be mercurial.”

          “Or perhaps you’ve just worked out that this way,” Sherlock smirked, wrapping his firm, warm hand around John, who gasped and rose into his touch, “You get off twice.”

          “There is that,” John panted, pulling Sherlock in for a kiss. He very much feared he whimpered in his mouth, and when Sherlock changed position and used one hand on his shaft and the other on his balls, he did whimper. Those analytical eyes were sweeping over him, cataloguing his responses, which was annoying as piss but also a tiny bit hot. _Maybe more than a tiny bit_ , John thought distractedly, feeling the beginnings of a well-deserved climax approach. Demandingly he pulled Sherlock in for a kiss, feeling drunk on those bee-stung crimson lips and mesmerizing eyes.

          Gasping the other man’s name, John threw his head back and groaned as he came, pulsing waves rushing through him. Dimly he felt the clever hands leave him, the mattress dip, a warm length along his side. “Nnnn,” John slurred, smacking his lips and smiling. He summoned the energy to move, rolled onto his side, slung an arm over Sherlock. “Lovely,” he sighed, nuzzling the damp curls.

          “Are you trying to cuddle me, John?”

          The haughty question brought his eyes open and John swallowed a sigh. “No. Perish the thought.” He moved onto his back and dropped his arm onto his stomach, grimacing at the mess. Stripping off the case on his pillow he wiped himself efficiently and tossed it at Sherlock, who caught it silently and gingerly wiped himself with a corner. John stared at the ceiling, lust gone, wishing Sherlock would leave.

          “This is a very small bed,” Sherlock observed after a lengthy silence which quivered with unspoken tension. He rolled onto his side, fitting himself against John, slipped an arm around him and propped his head on his hand. He gave a half-smile, “Only makes sense to lie close to you.”

          John relaxed slightly, turned his head and caught Sherlock’s eye and just like that the heat was back. _How did we make it this long without fucking each other’s brains out?_ John wondered, sinking into another heated kiss. He could become seriously addicted to kissing Sherlock Holmes. Despite the many excellent reasons he shouldn’t have been able to rise to the occasion, it didn’t take long for his body to be sitting up and begging for Sherlock’s attention. Sherlock obliged by taking him in his mouth without ceremony and drawing a strangled, “Sherlock!” out of John when he breeched his arse with his surreptitiously lubed fingers.

          “God yes, your mouth…” John fisted his hands in Sherlock’s curls, restrained himself from plunging into that talented mouth, breath coming short from the pleasure. Sherlock didn’t try and rush, he sucked and licked and let his hands roam, allowing John to experience each delightful sensation as his orgasm built. Gasping softly, convulsively, John raised his head off the pillow and watched Sherlock swallow him as he came. He reached for him and Sherlock obeyed his silent invitation, crawling up the bed to slide into John’s arms. They kissed lazily, passing the traces of John’s passion between them.

          No demurring now; Sherlock settled himself along John as delicately as a cat, actually purring when John raised a hand and softly stroked his back. He turned his head and kissed Sherlock’s curls, feeling the younger man go still, and then slowly relax after a long moment of hesitation. John silently exhaled in relief that he hadn’t scared him off. They were silent, drifting pleasantly, until one of them fell asleep and the other followed.

          It wasn’t long that they were asleep; John woke first and smiled to find Sherlock had rolled onto his other side and he had followed, wrapping himself around the sexy form. Kissing the back of his neck and shoulders, peppering his lightly freckled skin with tiny bites, John began stroking Sherlock’s bum. Teasing passes, light, feathering strokes; he didn’t stop to apply lube, just slicked his fingers with saliva and lightly massaged the rosy pucker of Sherlock’s arsehole. A moan was his reward, followed by a stretch that presented that luscious arse for his continued caresses. Clearly the other man liked being woken in that manner.

          Sherlock moaned happily, arching his back and riding John’s fingers. “John…”

          “Yeah, sw—Sherlock? You like that?”

          “You know I do,” Sherlock gasped, pressing back against John, “I want you inside me this time…”

          “I’d love to,” John assured him, urging him onto his stomach. He kissed his way down Sherlock’s body, letting his hands wander, “Spread your legs just a little…there…” lying on his belly between those leanly muscled thighs, John spread Sherlock’s cheeks and blew air softly over the sensitive skin, relishing the shivers and the way his name sounded strangled in Sherlock’s throat. He bit one plump cheek and smiled at the leap that was quickly quelled.

          Sherlock couldn’t easily hide his reaction when John licked a stripe up the cleft of his arse; he buried his face in the pillow and whimpered and sighed as John tormented him. “Rise up a little,” John instructed, when he felt Sherlock begin to rut against the mattress, “on your knees more. There.” He took advantage of the extra room and reached around to stroke that magnificent erection while he thrust his tongue inside the heat of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock cried out wordlessly, and then sighed his name as he rocked back against John’s invading tongue.

          “You know what this is called?” John asked, pulling back and smiling wickedly. “A rusty trombone.”

          Whatever snarky thing Sherlock might have said was cut off when John slipped his tongue back inside and curled it. Incoherent noises encouraged him; John wished he had gotten Shelock on his feet, as he’d then have a hand free to stroke himself. As it was, he was rock hard and wanting as he satisfied Sherlock.

          “I’m—I’m—I’m—” Unable to finish a sentence Sherlock made a rather graceless and inhuman noise and came, biting the pillow. Collapsing, he trapped John’s hand under him. John laughed softly and moved his hand, moving up to straddle Sherlock’s thighs. Leaning forward to brush at the tumbled curls that were all he could see of the other man’s head, John let his dick slide along the cleft of his buttocks. “As soon as you have it in you to turn over, I’m coming inside you. Bareback alright? I’m clean.”

          “Mmm…”

          “Mmm as in yes, that’s alright, so am I? Or Mmm as in I’m mentally fucked and couldn’t care less right now?”

          “Both,” Sherlock sighed, turning his head and smiling, eyes still closed. He looked blissed out and John leaned forward to kiss his cheek. Sherlock turned his head, seeking his mouth and they awkwardly kissed. Surprising John, Sherlock turned onto his back and pulled John to him with jealous arms. Chest to chest they embraced, kissing; John would have supposed Sherlock would have requested he clean his mouth first, but apparently he was much earthier when it came to sex.

          “I’m ready,” Sherlock whispered, eyes looking deeply sapphire in the light from the lamp; his tone sent a chill of some deep emotion down John’s spine. He couldn’t begin to parse the meaning in what Sherlock wasn’t saying, but he could feel that something was at work. As John generously applied lube to his cock, Sherlock propped his bum on a pillow and pinched his nipples, eyes on John, as John slicked his anus and ensured his readiness by applying more lube to his fingers and sinking them back inside Sherlock.

          Shaking with need, John took Sherlock’s long legs by the ankles and propped them on his shoulders. Lining up he stopped, eyes on Sherlock; he wanted him to look at him while he sank into his body’s embrace; he didn’t want Sherlock to close his eyes and pretend this was someone else. He didn’t know why he was suddenly paranoid that Sherlock was treating him anonymously. Despite all they had done, there was no turning back once they joined their bodies like this…they were going from friends, flatmates, occasional consulting partners to lovers. Reading John’s tumult of emotions in his eyes, Sherlock reached up and took his hands, which were on Sherlock’s thighs. Lacing their fingers he locked eyes with John, “Yes, John…please…” A convulsive swallow of his long throat, “I want you.”

          Slight resistance, and then…snug heat, wet and tight and glorious enveloped John’s dick and he caught an embarrassing sound in his throat, pressing forward. Fully seated inside him he kept one hand linked with Sherlock’s and the other smoothed down that milky thigh to circle the younger man’s burgeoning erection. Sherlock threw his head back, eyes still  on John’s, panting lightly as John thrust shallowly; his mouth fell open when John turned is head and kissed his ankle. John took Sherlock’s foot and set it against his shoulder, took the other leg and ran his hand down it as he coaxed the leg down and around his waist.

          The leverage allowed Sherlock to rock back against him, and they both groaned as John deepened his strokes, his hand keeping time around Sherlock’s length. “You’re so bloody tight,” John panted, briefly wiping sweat from his forehead, “God, that arse!”

          “John…” Sherlock lifted his hips, chasing him as he withdrew, “I want you deeper, _please_ …harder…I won’t break.”

          “Legs down,” dropping onto his hands he lowered his head and kissed Sherlock’s eager mouth, moving to put an obliging hand under his head and move them into better position. It was hotter, more intense and private somehow, to be breathing one another’s hasty, greedy breaths as he delved deeper into the other man’s body. “God, yes…Sherlock…” He thrust harder, pounding, and Sherlock threw his head back, crying out as his cock was trapped between them, the slide of John’s belly over his erection ramping up his arousal and eroding his control.

          “John, please!” He wrapped his arms around John, hands sinking into his arse cheeks as he urged him deeper.

          “You ready to come for me, gorgeous?” John bit out, clenching his jaw as he tried to stave off his impending release.

          A high whine of pleasure was his answer. “Look at me, Sherlock,” John commanded roughly, almost there, “I want to hear my name on your lips as you come…”

          “John…John…ah God, _Joooooohn_!” Sherlock kept his eyes wide open, fingers digging into John’s flesh as he stiffened and then shook, coming hard and fast. John stopped trying to delay the inevitable and pounded hard, stroking deep and fast until he came with Sherlock’s name on his tongue. Shaking he dropped next to him, half on, half off his body. Sherlock’s hand brushed his side and he shivered and felt another pulse of cum in response to the light stimulus.

          It was over. He’d gotten it, his night with Sherlock. _One night_ , John thought, depression settling in deep and dark in his soul. He flopped onto his back and let his arm rest over his eyes. He was afraid of what his face might reveal at this exact moment. The deep silence created more distance between them than the few inches allowed by the narrow bed. _This is it_ , John thought, _he’ll stand up in a minute and thank me for an interesting experiment and then leave. Come morning…Christ, come morning I may have to move. Wonder if he deletes all sexual encounters from his Mind Palace?_

He was braced for brisk dismissal and an abrupt departure. Not for a soft snore. Cautiously rolling his head toward the other man, John regarded him in disbelief. Here he was, wallowing in self-pity and depression, and the berk had gone and fallen asleep. _And_ he was taking up most of the bed.

          After a few minutes of staring up at the ceiling, John crept out of bed and collected his clothes. Following a brief shower he dressed and let himself out of the flat. It was a few hours until dawn. He’d walk, clear his head, and come to terms with all this. Because... unless Sherlock asked him to go, he wasn’t prepared to leave. He just needed to get his head wrapped around the idea that they were supposed to go back to being friends after one of the best nights of his life.

          He hadn’t taken his mobile with him so he wasn’t sure exactly how long he was gone, but by the time John returned to Baker Street he was feeling calmer. _Stiff upper lip as they say_ , he reflected, pausing before he straightened his shoulders with military precision and climbed the stairs. It was early, Sherlock was most likely still asleep, probably finally succumbing to his habitual lack of proper sleep, more than possible he’d—

          “Where the _fuck_ have you been?” Sherlock hissed, slamming the door closed and shoving John against it. His face was angry, harder than John had ever seen it.

          “Sherlock—what the hell?”

          “I woke up and you were gone, no note, mobile still here,” Sherlock had one hand braced against the door beside John’s face and he leaned in, crowding him. “I thought—”

          “What?” John’s heart thundered foolishly, “What did you think?”

          “If you regret our night, John,” Sherlock answered, pulling back and turning his back on John, “You had only to say so.” His shoulders arched proudly and he stalked away, to lean, arm on the mantel, studying the multi-tool standing blade first in the scarred mantel. “I’m a reasonable man.”

          “Maybe I’m not,” John snapped, weary and heart-sore and too tired and dispirited for subterfuge. “You just wanted sex—and that’s great, that’s fine. I’m happy for you.” He swallowed hard, “I just can’t do that though. Not with you.”

          “Why not with me?” Sherlock asked tightly, head still bowed enough that John couldn’t see his face in the mirror. “You certainly have no problem having casual sex with all the women you’ve paraded through here since you moved in.”

          “You’re—” John’s throat seized up. How to explain something so emotional to a man who scorned emotion?

          “What? A man?” Sherlock did turn then, face hard. “As you’re so fond of telling all and sundry, _you’re not gay_. Yes, we know.” A mocking tone entered his voice, “We’re all quite aware. And yet, for a man who professes his heterosexuality so vehemently, you certainly were eager to plunder my arse.” He smirked cruelly, “And with a good deal of technique at getting a man off--quite skilled.”

          “You—” John bit back his words, breathing hard. He squeezed his eyes closed and groped for his control. “I’m not gay, _arsehole_. But I never said I was hetero either, did I?” He opened his eyes in time to see Sherlock’s face ripple in shock, “It’s called bisexuality, you idiot. I didn’t make a big deal out of it because you made it clear right from the start that you had no interest in sex. It seemed only polite, if we were going to share a flat, that I kept my interest in you to myself.”

          There went that open mouth-gaping like a fish-stunned beyond words look that Sherlock had only dusted off a time or two. John pushed away from the door, crossed the room to stand near him. “Look,” he consciously softened his voice, “Last night was a mistake,” John stared hard at the rug, “I’m not like you—I can’t just turn it on and off. I’ve been fighting my attraction to you for nearly a year and if it hadn’t been for that damned magazine— and just why in the hell were you sex-potting it up in that anyway?”

          “I was high; it seemed a good idea at the time.” Sherlock said hoarsely. He licked his lips, “John, are you saying you’re interested in…a relationship?”

          “Don’t worry,” John said heavily, trying to summon a smile, “I know last night was just sex. You made it clear. One time, right? Now it’s back to business as usual at Baker Street. Only, only you may have to make allowances for the fact that I’m only human.” He was too embarrassed to look directly at his friend, “I’m sure after a while I’ll be able to go back to—”

          “John, what were your three rules last night?”

          John pinched the bridge of his nose, “If you keep interrupting me like that I’m sure it will cool my ardor, thanks.”

          “John, please. The rules?”

          Sighing, “Only what feels good, only with consent, and no treating me like an experiment.”

          “And yet you willingly broke one of those rules for me, didn’t you?” Sherlock smiled as he saw John’s expression alter, “Do you see where I’m going with this?”

          “If you are trying to say you’re willing to break you rule about it being just sex,” John warned him roughly, “You’d best be damned sure you’re ready for it. I’m not going to hold back, Sherlock. No turning back the clock. Once we commit to a relationship, I’m giving it my all and I’ll accept no less from you.” He held out a hand as Sherlock took a step forward, “It might die a natural, fiery death if we’re just not compatible—but it won’t be for lack of trying, will it?”

          Sherlock looked eager, excited, high on emotion; he closed the distance between them, “I assure you, John,” he promised, moving into his arms, “That I can be remarkably single minded once I’ve got my mind set on something.” He smirked, “Addict, remember?”

          “No jokes about the drug addiction please,” John said, and captured his mouth in a searing kiss. He ran his hands over that long, gorgeous body, “Partners or boyfriends?” He asked when they finally parted.

          “Must we?”

          “All or nothing,” he said sternly. “Which is it to be?”

          “Partners, I suppose. It is mildly less appalling, even if it is imprecise. People will think we’re referring to our working relationship.”

          “As if you care what people think,” John said, busily undressing.

          “I really don’t.”

          “Good. Because you’re about to fuck me up against that wall until I scream your name so loudly Mrs. Turner’s married ones are going to be gagging for a post-coital smoke.”

          “John, your sense of adventure and lack of inhibitions are some of the things I most admire about you.”

          John snapped his fingers, “Less talk, more stripping, soldier.”

          “I’m both offended and aroused by your use of command and the word soldier,” Sherlock informed him, disrobing with abandon, “We shall explore my intrigue later.”        

          “Anything you want, love—within reason.”

          Sherlock paused, eyes flickering over John’s face, “You called me love.”

          “You like precision, don’t you?” John asked, trying to mask his hesitance.

          “I refuse to indulge in pet names.” Sherlock dropped to his knees, looked up John’s body, “But I feel the same, John.” His eyes were quite soft, even if he was about to fellate his partner, though they changed long enough for him to warn, “If you call me that in public, be advised that I’ll drug you and leave you naked in Picadilly.”

          “That’s my sweet love,” John groaned happily, tunneling his fingers into the hair of the man he loved. By God but he was going to have fun dating Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
